


A Raging Hornet's Nest

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Challenge Response, Confrontations, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Time, Jealous John, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, Post-A Scandal in Belgravia, Sexual Frustration, Tropes, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler is dead, but Sherlock's phone is suddenly making that unmistakable noise again. Feeling threatened by Irene's possible return, John confronts Sherlock, setting off a chain of memories and realizations.</p><p>Originally written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 15 for the trope 'Jealousy'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note that this was originally intended as a one-chapter one shot. The muse got to me, though, so I followed it to some unexpected places as I imagined fill-ins, what-ifs, and whys.

_Ahhhhh…_

The orgasmic sigh oozed across the breakfast table, slithering red-nails parted-lips silky-thighs into the comfortable silence. John’s head snapped up from the eggs and toast he was just about to tuck into, his eyes shooting first to Sherlock, then to the phone he was now leisurely tilting up to read. Sherlock’s expression gave away nothing as he turned the phone face down on the table and took a sip of tea, returned his attention to the newspaper.

The muscles in John’s arms and hands tightened. That damned text alert. It was impossible. She was dead. Irene Adler was dead. Mycroft had said so at the cafe on that rainy day six months ago.

John himself had lied to Sherlock, telling him Irene was alive and in a witness protection program. But she was dead. She had to be.

"That's a bit unusual, isn't it?” John asked, trying to keep his voice even. “Texting after all this time?"

“Is it?” Sherlock replied vaguely, turning a page.

“I thought she was gone,” John continued carefully. “In America somewhere.”

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock answered coolly, not looking up.

John’s mouth twitched as he tried to cover a surge of anger. How could she possibly be contacting Sherlock again, and why had he kept that obnoxious text alert on his phone? John first heard it again two days ago late in the evening while he was reading and Sherlock was at the microscope. John had been surprised, but he dismissed it as a fluke. When it happened a second time the following evening, he tried to reason it away as a misdial, a wrong number. Sherlock had said nothing.

But now a third text to Sherlock’s phone… unlikely to be accidental. So either Irene Adler was miraculously communicating from beyond the grave, or Mycroft had intentionally lied to him about her demise. But why lie? Maybe Mycroft truly believed she was dead. After all, she had convincingly faked her death once before.

A more ominous thought began to form in John’s mind. _It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me,_ Mycroft had said about Irene’s death. Sherlock could be playing all of them for fools. What if he and Irene were working together, had planned all this -- her disappearance, shaking off the killers that were supposedly after her -- and now she was coming back?

John looked blindly down at his plate, no longer hungry, his stomach hollow, his chest burning. He couldn’t bring himself to voice the next questions: _How can she be alive? What does she want?_

Irene alarmed John; she always had. She unsettled him with her frank manner and cryptic remarks, her clever ruthlessness. Her presence had even rattled Sherlock in a way John had never seen. She had started to coax something out of Sherlock that John yearned to understand, but had never been allowed to access.

And yet, to this day John didn’t know how Sherlock felt about Irene. The Woman. Sherlock had shut John out each time he’d attempted to discuss her. Had he loved her? Despised her? Felt ambivalent? _Why would I want to see her again?_ Sherlock had replied when John lied to him about Irene’s fate. Sherlock’s response had left John relieved, then confused, disheartened. He thought Sherlock had cared about her. Did he -- could he -- ever feel anything for anybody?

John absently rolled his fork between his fingers, still not eating. He disliked Irene. She was extremely troubling. She was far too perceptive. At Battersea, she had pulled his heart out, examined it, and stuck a raging hornet’s nest of revelations back in its place. John refused to acknowledge the feelings she’d stirred up, but they crept in anyway, hovering around the edges of his waking hours. But he disciplined himself, tamped them down, repressed them.

And so he went on with cases and work at the clinic and buying milk and chewing toast and writing his blog and bickering with Sherlock and sleeping alone. Sleeping… what there was of it. Nighttime was when he couldn’t control those feelings, couldn’t keep them locked tightly away. They seeped out, took full form, invaded his dreams, twined down his torso, woke him in a sweat, aroused, his body betraying him, aching for someone who felt nothing, who would never reciprocate his desire.

And now John’s body was giving him away again, Irene’s apparent return setting his every nerve on edge, triggering every alarm in his nervous system. He knew it made no sense -- Sherlock had no interest in anyone, just The Work -- but still he viscerally felt a threat approaching, a challenge veiled within Irene's disembodied, breathy moan.

He lifted his eyes to Sherlock, who remained distant, engrossed in an article. As John watched him he felt his defenses slipping, dissolving, remembering the torrid dream he’d had last night, a dream in which he’d heard Irene’s sensual sigh, but it had morphed, changed, sliding down the scale, going deeper in range….

_Ahhhhh…_

Sherlock’s phone gasped again, and John’s fist struck the table, once, hard, jolting the cups and saucers and forks and knives with an angry clatter.

Sherlock looked at John in unabashed shock.

“What the hell is going on?” John demanded through gritted teeth.

Sherlock composed his face back into a neutral expression. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes.” John smiled faintly, dangerously. “Your brother told me Irene Adler was dead.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. “You were given inaccurate information.”

John’s fist remained clenched atop the table. “What does she want?”

“Assistance,” Sherlock replied. “With a personal matter.”

“Don’t,” John said, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t answer her.”

Sherlock met his eyes, challenging him. “Why not?”

John’s cold smile still played on his lips, but his eyes beseeched Sherlock, the unspoken truth coursing across his face as it swept despairingly through his mind.

_Because I want you beneath my hands, my mouth on yours_  
_I want to hear you moan, feel your body shudder under mine_  
_I want all of you, but you want nothing, no one, please not Irene_  
_Because I don’t want to be in love with you, but God help me, I am_

John shook his head once more. “Don’t,” he simply repeated, softer this time.

Sherlock regarded him closely, their eyes locked. Finally, he reached for his phone. His fingers moved across the screen, hesitating briefly before pressing one last item firmly with his thumb. “Deleted,” he said. “All of it.”

John nodded, willed himself to breathe, his hands to unclench. “Good,” he said, “Thank you.”

Sherlock placed the phone down again, flicked his eyes to John before returning to the newspaper. “Think nothing of it.”

John took a drink of tea to steady himself, glanced once more at Sherlock, unreadable, seemingly impassive. He did not discern how quickly Sherlock's heart was pounding, wildly disturbed and strangely elevated by those few seconds of raw emotion in John’s eyes that he had observed but could not yet comprehend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was rec'ed awhile ago on a list of "Jealous John" fics, and at the time the story existed as only this first chapter. I later added chapters to it. So if you aren't comfortable reading about Sherlock and Irene Adler being together in an intimate fashion -- then stop here. You have been fairly warned here AND in the tags. If you're game for more Irene, go forth!


	2. Chapter 2

Irene toyed with her phone in one hand, her chin propped in the other as she sat at the desk in the bland hotel room, its walls predictably hung with black-and-white prints of Big Ben. It was a temporary living situation, one she was eager to leave, but she had to be patient, as well as cautious. She had recently slipped back into London under a new name, along with a new hair color. She rather enjoyed being a ginger.

It was risky coming back, but she had some financial dealings and a few personal matters to attend to before moving on. One of those matters was being quite stubborn.

Irene leaned back in her chair and gazed out the window, letting out an irritated sigh. Sherlock clearly wasn’t going to answer her texts. She knew that he was in London, had a rough sketch of his recent comings and goings, thanks to lovely, ever-faithful Kate. She also was aware that John Watson was still at Baker Street, and even knew the clinic where he worked occasional hours.

She played with the strand of pearls at her neck, thinking. There were certainly other ways to communicate. Some just required a more personal touch than others. So be it.

*****  
John walked along the street, glancing at his phone while still thinking about the best course of treatment for a patient he’d seen earlier that day. He paused just outside a favorite coffee shop to quickly check his messages before he went inside.

“Dr. Watson.”

John looked up at the sound of his name, glanced around, located the source. His expression was curious as he tried to place the strangely familiar face, then his eyes widened in disbelief.

“Hello again.” Irene pushed herself away from the side of the building where she’d been waiting. “Someone told me you like to stop here for coffee after work. May I join you?”

John slowly lowered his phone, his mouth a harsh line.

“Come now, Dr. Watson. Let’s be civil. Not exactly the best place for a scene, is it?”

He glowered as if weighing the ramifications of throttling her in public. “What could you possibly want?”

“Just a few minutes of your time. I’d like to speak with you.”

John looked at her with thinly veiled disdain. “It’s Sherlock you’ve been texting. Why come to me?”

She smiled. “I think you might be a better listener.” She folded her hands, dropped them demurely below her waist. “Please.”

John looked away as several people pushed by them to get to the shop door. He rubbed his jaw, straightened his back, finally met her eyes. “Fine,” he decided. “I’ll hear you out if it means you’ll leave us alone.”

Irene raised an eyebrow at his choice of pronoun, but did not comment. Instead, she turned and pulled open the door. They ordered coffees, found a quiet table in the back.

“You were supposed to be dead. That’s twice now,” John stated tersely once they were seated.

Irene shrugged. “I do what I have to do.”

“Yeah, well, third time’s a charm,” John muttered. “So what is it you want to say?”

She added sugar to her coffee, taking her time. “I’m not going to be in London long. I was trying to contact Sherlock for help obtaining certain documents. He never replied. I managed to do it on my own, but there was something else I wanted to tell him.” Irene stirred her coffee, trying to find the right words. “Look, I know you don’t like me, and that’s fine. But I want you to know I’m being sincere. I wanted to thank Sherlock and offer my assistance if it’s ever needed.”

“Oh, really?” John scoffed. "What type of assistance would that be?"

"I have connections. I know how to make things happen, or I know who to ask.”

“And what they like,” John added snidely.

She met his gaze. “Yes, and often what they like.” She saw that John was not going to soften, and decided to cut to the chase, maybe twist the knife a bit as well. “The only reason I’m not dead is because Sherlock tracked me down in Karachi. At great risk to his own life, I might add. Did you know that?”

John eyed her warily, his smirk fading.

“Ah, so you didn’t know.” Irene tapped her spoon once, placed it in the saucer. She took a sip, her red lipstick staining the rim of the white cup. “I owe him everything. He saved my life,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, but failing, a rush of emotions escaping as she remembered the torturous hours she fully expected to die. Irene looked down again, regaining her composure.

When she glanced up at John, she could see that he was trying to piece together what she’d just told him, wanting to dispute her claim. But he must have remembered something -- an unexplained absence, a ticket stub, some confirming detail -- because his expression darkened.

“What happened in Karachi?” he asked, his voice flat.

“He found me, saved me.”

“No, I mean, what _happened_?”

Irene looked at him carefully, now understanding his real question. “We stayed in a safe house while we waited to leave the country. We shared a room, a bed. A little more.”

John closed his eyes, and she saw his fingers curl more tightly around his coffee mug. There was a long silence.

“What do you want from him?” John finally asked.

Irene stared into her coffee. “I don’t know. But he intrigues me.” She looked up. “And if I were to ask you the same thing, Dr. Watson...?”

John didn’t answer, his fingers still gripping the cup. He countered with another question. “Are you going to see him?”

“I’m not sure that would be wise. But I might do it anyway.” She smoothed her hand across the tabletop. “I can’t stay here,” she reiterated after another long silence, “but I plan to come back someday, once I reinvent myself.” She raised her chin. “There are several things you need to know about me, Dr. Watson. One, I’m a self-preservationist. Two, I like to break people's notions of themselves, strip them down to their vulnerabilities. Three, I usually get what I want. But sometimes I respect boundaries, if there’s good reason.”

John refused to look at her, not rising to her provocative remarks, keeping his eyes on his coffee mug. “I saved his life,” he said quietly, “before he saved yours.”

“Then maybe it’s my turn to save _your_ life, or at least do you a favor,” she replied. She stood up, gathered her coat and bag, hesitating before adding one more thing. “Don’t wait forever, John. Someday it’ll be too late.”


	3. Chapter 3

He needed a pen. A simple, bloody pen. Where had they all gotten to? Sherlock rummaged through the chaos on the kitchen table, the top of his desk. None to be found. He pulled open several drawers, sweeping his hand through the contents. He paused when his fingers brushed against something smooth and metallic. He picked up the camera phone that had belonged to Irene, a memento purloined from the British government.

He turned the phone over in his hand, watching it glint in the fading sunlight, the pen forgotten. Karachi. He’d thought about it several times over the past few days since Irene had unexpectedly resurfaced.

His mind traveled back to the small room with dingy white walls, the sparse furnishings, the faded blue curtains that hung listless in the heat, the whisper of the ineffectual ceiling fan, Irene pulling off her head scarf, her hands still shaking after her ordeal.

They had not spoken during the tense car ride through the darkness to the safe house, a cramped apartment on the outskirts of the city. Now they stood looking at each other across the room that was bathed in dim lamplight, finally still.

She folded the scarf, her face pale and drawn. “Thank you,” she said.

Sherlock merely nodded, still wired. “Get some sleep.”

She laid down silently in the bedroom, curling up with her back to him while he paced, checking every door and window, determining modes of entry and egress, checking for hidden surveillance. Satisfied the apartment was clean, he noted the small kitchen stocked with a few days’ worth of basics. He decided to shower, washing away sweat and grime and blood, letting the sparse trickle of cool water run down his neck and back longer than necessary. He suddenly felt exhausted.

It had been a rash decision, coming here, but the spectre of Irene Adler had been haunting him for months. The way things ended between them had left an oddly bitter taste. He’d won the game, yes, but it was unfinished. She knew things, valuable things, that he needed to know. Things about Moriarty.

A week ago Sherlock had randomly glanced at Mycroft’s desk, caught a glimpse of intelligence chatter on the computer screen that he immediately knew was connected to Irene, setting him off on this impulsive pursuit. He’d told no one where he was going. He barely knew what his plans were, beyond finding Irene and getting them both out of the country alive.

He ran his palms down his face, across several days’ stubble, wishing he had a razor. That would have to wait until they were well away from here.

He turned off the taps, toweled off his hair, pulled on his trousers. He paused in the doorway to the next room. Irene was asleep, her face to the wall. He switched off the light, lay down on the bed with his back to hers, and fell into a dreamless sleep almost instantly.

*****

Sherlock woke slowly to the sensation of water droplets falling on his bare arm. He was confused, thinking he was outside in the rain, but knowing that couldn’t be right. He partially opened his eyes, and it was several moments before he understood that Irene was sitting in bed next to him, running her fingers through her wet hair, trying to get the tangles out without a comb, a towel wrapped around her torso.

She kept her eyes downward as she worked at her hair, unaware that she was being observed. Even in the dark he could see the angry bruises on her wrists marking where her hands had been bound. He briefly wondered what she’d been through since he’d last seen her.

He closed his eyes again as several drops of water landed on his cheek and lashes. Then it suddenly struck him, the realization that Irene had used what she believed to be her last seconds of life to reach out to him, to bid him farewell. _Goodbye, Mr. Holmes._ He’d heard the text alert, had read the message later in the car, hadn’t fully processed it all until just now. It caused him to open his eyes again, only to find Irene’s blue gaze trained on him.

“Sorry if I woke you,” she said, fingers trailing through her hair once more.

He didn’t answer, still lost in his own thoughts. She glanced away, unwound the towel, tossed it to the end of the bed, then slid under the sheet. She turned to face him. “How long do we stay here?”

He focused on her question, still distracted by the implications of her final message to him. “Two days. A driver will come to take us across the border.”

She nodded and they fell silent, watching each other.

“I thought I was going to die,” she said quietly. “None of this feels quite real yet.” She ran her hand along the mattress as if to verify its existence. Her hand came to a stop and she met his eyes again. “Why are you helping me?”

He paused, choosing his words. “You’re part of something bigger,” he said. “You have important information.”

“Oh, of course. Jim Moriarty,” she said, her gaze turning steely. “Now that I’m indebted to you, I’m obligated to tell you all I know. Fine. I understand.” She looked at him more closely. “But there’s something I don’t understand.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she continued. “Why not send someone else to do this? Why risk your own life?”

“This wasn’t exactly sanctioned,” he replied. “Apart from one or two trusted contacts who are far removed from the situation, no one else knows I’m here.”

She looked surprised. “Not your big brother?”

“No.”

“Not even Dr. Watson?”

“No.”

Irene continued to scrutinize him, seeming to come to some conclusion that she kept to herself. She lay on her stomach, settled her head on her arms. “Then we’re just ghosts at the moment, aren’t we? The outside world thinks I’m dead and you’ve vanished into thin air.” She waited several more beats, her expression turning more serious. “Why are you here in this room, in this bed?”

Sherlock didn’t have an answer prepared for that, his motives becoming murkier as the seconds passed. _What was he doing here?_ He had the unnerving sensation of falling in slow motion as he began to wonder if he’d intended this clandestine reunion all along, kept it hidden even from himself until they were off the grid, nameless, bound to nothing. Irene was a link to Moriarty, but she also held the key to something else, something deeply buried within him that had been slowly stirring.

He couldn’t speak, struck dumb by a tide of realization and confusion that was further compounded when Irene moved closer, placed her hand on his cheek, her eyes searching his. She bent forward slowly, allowing her lips to brush against his mouth as she whispered, “Tell me why you’re here.”

He said nothing, his mind racing.

_Because you’re clever and an equal match_  
_Because you started something that isn’t finished_  
_Because you unlocked something and I don’t know what it is_  
_Because I need you to help me understand_

"Because... you know things," he replied at long last.

Irene smiled, not at all mockingly, almost gently.

She leaned in again, letting her mouth linger near his, not quite making contact. “I do know many, many things that I think you want to know.” She traced a finger across his lips. “You once told me you should never let your heart rule your head. But sometimes…” her hand skimmed down his chest, across his stomach, “you should let your body rule everything.”

She slid her hand beneath his waistband and he closed his eyes at her touch, inhaling sharply as he finally acknowledged it. Sex. Foolish, human, primal need prowling like a caged panther in his gut, locked away and willingly sedated for years now awakened and agitated.

He had chosen Irene, knowing instinctively she would understand, that she could masterfully guide what no one else could, or would want to -- a damaged, delusional, half-mad addict detective, a tangle of contradictions, snarls and arrogance and impatience coiled with doubt and self-loathing and inexperience. With Irene there would be no further explanations needed, no expectations, no assumptions on her part or his. It wasn't tenderness he felt toward her, nor was it affection. It was an affinity of sorts, bound with a curiosity that needed to be sated.

Strangely detached, he lifted a strand of damp hair from her shoulder and wound it around his fingers, drawing her fractionally closer.

“For two days we can forget who we are, what we’re supposed to be,” she murmured, working at his trousers, pulling them from his hips, stripping away the last of the barriers between them. She ran her fingers across his throat, encircled his neck with her hand, pushed him back. He didn’t resist. He didn’t want to. He was tired of thinking.

“I’m going to teach you things, and you’re going to be my obedient student.” She slid atop him, straddling his waist, and he bit his lip, shocked by the heat of her skin melding into his. This, the animal act of body against body, was what people lied for, paid for, even killed for... She pressed an open palm against his chest, and inexplicably the thought of John Watson slipped unbidden into his mind, catching him off guard, causing him to wonder, was jarred away when Irene grasped his hair, whispered near his ear, “I’m going to break you, shatter you into a million pieces… and then we’ll start again."

His mind shut down, vibrating at the frequency of a low growl.

*****

Sherlock held the phone a moment longer, then dropped it back into the depths of the drawer, which he slid back into place. Like the phone, the two days in Karachi with Irene were similarly stowed away in his mind palace. Useful experiences, infrequently accessed. He continued the hunt for a pen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is not over yet... and Johnlock is endgame.


	4. Chapter 4

Irene had been following Sherlock for several minutes, his long coat easy to spot. She guessed he was heading to Bart’s, knew she could likely catch him alone in a hallway outside the morgue or lab. It was foolish, she knew, but she had the desire to see him again, talk to him for just five minutes before she disappeared again for an unknown period of time.

What would she say? _Thank you again. I’ll help you however I can…_ That would take all of 30 seconds. What she really wanted to know would take longer. _Do you ever think of me? Are you happy?_

She sometimes thought about Karachi, a hazy suspension of heat, sweaty tutelage, cool showers, few words… She’d gotten him to beg for mercy only once, not quite twice.

She also told him what she knew of Moriarty, urged him to be cautious. When it was time to leave they covered themselves again in layers of loose dark clothing, becoming anonymous until they crossed the border and went their separate ways. When they parted, she impulsively stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

“Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”

He caught her briefly by the wrist to steady her balance, held her gaze. “Goodbye, Miss Adler.” He released her again.

That was the last she’d seen of him, until now. Sherlock was nearing the entrance to the hospital, then slowed, stopping to answer his phone, looking irritated at the interruption.

Irene hung back, slipped into a doorway close enough to see him, but too far to hear the conversation. He appeared to sigh, checked the time, then nodded, ending the call. He shoved his phone into his pocket, then began pacing, clearly waiting for someone.

When John Watson appeared, Irene watched more closely. Sherlock instantly crossed to him, took something from John's hand -- a folder of papers -- began rifling through it as John tried to point out something to him. Sherlock clearly wasn't listening. John grabbed the folder back, flipped to the correct page, pointed exaggeratedly at a section as if Sherlock were an idiot.

Sherlock stilled, reading whatever it was, then a slow smile crept across his face. He looked at John, said a quick few words, John nodding in affirmation as he flipped to another page, pointing at something else, offering an explanation. Sherlock shot him a smirk, saying something that made John laugh before looking back down at the papers.

Irene noticed how Sherlock’s eyes lingered on John an extra moment before returning to the folder. Still talking, they both began walking again, moving in sync to the entrance, John holding the door open while Sherlock passed through, and they vanished from sight.

Irene stood a moment longer, deciding against her earlier plan. She turned, returning the way she had come, a bittersweet smile forming on her lips. She mentally added a question to the list she wouldn’t be asking Sherlock. _Don't you know how in love with each other you are?_

*****

It was dark by the time they left Bart’s, John only half-listening as Sherlock concluded an impassioned treatise on the beauty of poisons.

John nodded absently, his thoughts having turned elsewhere over the course of the long afternoon in the lab waiting for the toxin screen Sherlock was so gleeful about. He had spent a good portion of that time casting surreptitious glances at Sherlock, thinking about Irene’s parting words to him in the coffee shop: _Don’t wait forever._

Was that advice, or a threat? John kept his head down as they walked back toward the flat. He’d been staying as busy as possible the past few days, spending extra time researching leads for the current case. But today there had been a lull, and everything was churning inside him again, the questions he so badly wanted to ask burning in his chest. “Sherlock,” he heard himself say, then felt himself stop on the pavement before he could think it through.

Sherlock halted as well, turned to him, waiting.

“Has Irene Adler come to see you?” John finally blurted out.

Sherlock seemed taken aback. “No. Why?”

John looked away, not sure he wanted to say it. “I saw her. She tracked me down a few days ago.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John pushed on. “She offered her help if you ever need it, said she’s leaving London again soon.”

“I see,” Sherlock replied guardedly.

John watched him, searching for some reaction, finding none. He was growing weary of this. “I wish I knew --” he started, then stopped, then began again. “She told me you saved her life -- that you were in Karachi.” John’s voice was strained on the last word, nearly choking on what Irene had implied.

Sherlock saw a muscle in John’s jaw twitch, and he recalled John’s fist coming down hard on the breakfast table. His vitriol toward Irene was surprising, but he was no doubt angry that he’d been lied to repeatedly about her death. When John had asked him not to reply to her texts, he had obliged without question, deleting her messages and blocking her number. He didn’t want to risk losing John’s friendship over her, but Irene apparently had taken matters into her own hands, seeking John out directly. Why? What was she playing at?

His suspicions were answered when John posed another question. “Do you want to see her again?”

So, this was how she had decided to communicate -- through John. Annoyed with Irene, Sherlock returned his gaze, completely unprepared to glimpse again the expression he had seen in John’s eyes that day at breakfast, the one so raw that it leapt across the table and caught at his pulse. He could understand how Irene might provoke aggravation, impatience, but John’s face conveyed something else entirely -- pain, hurt… jealousy?

Sherlock frowned and broke the gaze, confused. He must be misreading this, failing again to accurately gauge the cues to other people’s emotions. John didn’t feel that way about him; there was no reason he would be jealous of Irene.

It had to be that John disliked her, didn’t want her mucking about and creating more unnecessary trouble. But that didn’t quite explain why his own heart was hammering again, uncertain of what to make of these conflicting bits of information.

Sherlock realized that John was still waiting for an answer to his question. He took a deep breath. “No. No, I don’t want to see her again.” He risked a glance back at John, who was still studying him. He’d spoken the truth, what else should he say? God, he envied how easily these interactions came to other people. This was a nightmare of body language and microexpressions and physical reactions, all flooding past him too quickly to process.

He tried to still his mind and focus on one thought only, and that thought was John. He did not want to anger him, did not want to drive him away. In fact, he couldn’t quite imagine life without him.

And what if… what if John did feel something for him, if he wanted more than friendship? Sherlock’s eyes slid to John’s hands, his throat tightening in reaction to a visceral thought. _What would it be like to be touched by him, to be twined in his limbs, to share that primal heat?_ He didn’t dare think any further, knowing he was imagining the impossible.

Sherlock quickly looked away. “Any more questions?” he asked, instantly regretting how curt that sounded.

John shook his head. “No.” He cleared his throat, took a step back. “I think... I think I’ll see if Stamford is up for a pint. I’ll see you back at the flat later.” He turned, walking briskly away, relieved, shaken, as besotted and impotent to act as ever.

Sherlock stared after him, already keenly feeling his absence, knowing the conversation had been unsatisfactory, not knowing the words he should have said, a restless buzzing stirring in the hollow of his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock walked slowly back to the flat, turning the conversation over in his mind, stitching together John’s fist slamming down on the table, past cryptic comments, prolonged glances, his own silences, Irene and John’s exchange he'd overheard at Battersea.

_We’re not a couple._  
 _Yes, you are. Look at us both._

He hung his coat behind the door, so engrossed with his thoughts and the need for a drink that he didn’t notice the lack of light, the streetlamps providing adequate illumination to fill a glass with three cubes of ice and a generous splash of 12-year-old Scotch. He looked out the window, took a drink, letting the liquid settle and burn in his mouth. He swallowed. And then he knew. He needed John Watson.

Need was the only word that fit, the only one base and broad and urgent enough to apply. Air was needed. Water was needed. Blood circulating through brain and heart was needed. He needed John in order to survive, to think, to do The Work, to… everything.

Deep down he had known this for a long time, but had not dared admit it to himself -- a weakness, a flaw, a vulnerability that he did not want exposed. It was rare enough to have a flatmate, a colleague, a friend… anything beyond that was unimaginable. Yes, he could admit to caring for, of being fond of, a handful of people… but the notion of a relationship, of ever loving someone, of ever having that returned…

He took another swallow. Freaks and sociopaths didn’t get those things, as he had been consistently and cruelly informed in one way or another throughout his life. And so to even dare contemplate that John might feel something for him was a frighteningly foreign proposition.

He smiled wryly to himself, swirling the whiskey, watching the ice glisten. How pathetic. The famously clever detective was too slow and too thick to know his own heart, too afraid to risk expressing any of this to John. If he were wrong, it could potentially upend their friendship, ruining what they currently shared.

He downed the contents of the glass, nearly coughing at the firey sting running down his throat, grabbed the bottle by the neck and was about to seek refuge in his chair when the door quietly opened.

John stood framed in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dark, his keys in his hand. He had gone for a drink alone, changing his mind about having company. Sitting in the pub in a dark corner, he’d done nothing but ruminate and second-guess again. He was so tired of thinking. Now standing at the door to the flat, he said nothing as he slowly dropped his keys back into his coat pocket, taking in the sight of the tall silhouette by the window holding a bottle and glass.

John remained silent as he shut the door and left the lights off. He removed his coat, went to the kitchen, took down a tumbler from the shelf. He walked over to Sherlock, held out his glass, no ice, and Sherlock poured him a shot, then another for himself. Sherlock set the bottle down on the desk, and they watched each other over the tops of their glasses, the stinging fumes of the Scotch rising up. John tossed his drink back and Sherlock followed suit.

John placed his empty glass on the desk, his eyes cast down. His index finger tapped lightly on the rim, five times, before he slowly looked up, reached out, and took the glass from Sherlock’s hand, setting it on the desk next to his.

Their eyes met, and Sherlock felt paralyzed, a half-drawn breath held in his lungs, the space between them too close and too vast, tipping precariously without definition.

 _Don't wait forever._ John finally took a decisive step forward, his hands cupping the sides of Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down, then hesitating. Eyes lowered, foreheads nearly touching, they were both struck motionless with a heady mix of apprehension and desire.

His heart racing, Sherlock’s hands slowly went to John’s waist, carefully drawing him closer. They stood a moment more, suspended, then he angled his head, their lips meeting tentatively, a brush of soft heat, then again, a taste of smoky whiskey, his fingers skimming up John’s back, until John drew a ragged breath and kissed him harder, pressing him back against the window pane.

Sherlock could feel the cool damp from the glass seep through his shirt to his spine, could feel the heat of John’s body radiating against his chest and thighs. Suddenly, he was nothing but five senses, letting his body rule, greedily devouring everything he was offered. His hands moved across John’s shoulders, then curved around his neck, pulling him still closer.

John pushed his hips into him, growing hard with want, and Sherlock slipped his tongue between John’s lips in reply, a small groan of gratitude rising in his throat.

_I understand. I finally understand how much I need you._

John heard the low sound, and he ground harder into Sherlock, wanting to possess him, submit to him, know every inch of him.

_Because I want you beneath my hands, my mouth on yours_  
 _I want to hear you moan, feel your body shudder under mine_  
 _I want all of you, I’m in love with you,_  
 _God help me, I am._

Any last traces of hesitation rapidly evaporated as they moved from the window, winding their way to the sofa, sinking onto the cushions, resuming their urgent exploration with hands and mouths. Fingers curled into hair and slipped under clothing, undoing buttons and zippers, pushing fabric away until skin could warm bare skin.

John slid his palms almost reverently down Sherlock’s torso, pausing over his hipbones, then his hand circled Sherlock's cock, his thumb slicking across the top. Sherlock heard his own sharp intake of breath before closing his eyes and giving in completely to the moment as John lowered his head and slowly took him into the yielding warmth of his mouth, going deeper, drawing out a series of intensifying shudders and flexes, culminating in a final rigid gasp.

They later sought Sherlock’s bed, still touching, tasting, Sherlock trailing his lips across John's shoulder, his mouth coming to rest against John’s throat, breathing in the scent of his skin. Sherlock's long fingers slowly ran down the length of John's cock, grasping lightly at first, then stroking him, John's hips rising in response, his hands bunching the sheets, head tipping back with a guttural groan.

Depleted, they lay close together at a languorously late hour, well beyond words, fingers lazily tracing the slope of back and curve of arse and angle of hip. They finally slept, John’s arm curled protectively around Sherlock’s waist.


	6. Chapter 6

Late morning light was streaming through the windows when Sherlock half woke and turned over, finding a deliciously soft part of the pillow that was perfectly cool and smooth, drawing him back down into sleep. He shifted a bit more, searching for an equally cool and soft place to slide his leg, but finding the warmth and solidity of John's calf instead. 

He stilled, remembering the whiskey, the window, the storm of pent-up want... Sherlock opened his eyes, taking in the rise of John’s shoulder, the nape of his neck, and finally felt something akin to surprise. This was a turn of events he could not have predicted, but had willingly, eagerly, followed. He was, in fact, both a bit stunned and remarkably content to wake up next to John. It still didn’t seem quite real. As if testing for evidence, he extended one finger and ran it lightly down the vertebrae of John’s neck.

John stirred at the touch, waking slowly, then recalled everything in a flash. He kept his eyes closed, wanting to hold on to the warmth of the memory for a few seconds longer. He was glad to feel the weight of Sherlock next to him, and even more pleased to feel Sherlock's fingertips drawing a line from his left shoulder to his backbone.

“What are you doing?” John asked sleepily.

Sherlock’s fingers now hovered over the scar on John’s shoulder. He dealt with probability, not fate, but had John made one small random change in movement… “It’s fortunate that bullet didn’t stray six inches to your spinal column,” he said, touching the scar again.

John smiled. Coming from anyone else that would have made for a brutal morning greeting. “I’m rather grateful for that myself.” He turned and looked at Sherlock, hair tousled, eyes almost green in this particular light, and felt a flame rekindle as images from last night replayed in his mind. 

John couldn’t resist reaching out now to stroke his thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone, then across his bottom lip, simple, intimate gestures he’d often ached to do at odd moments. He wasn’t entirely certain where things would go now, or what Sherlock wanted. They hadn’t spoken at all last night, not in words, anyway. He frankly didn't want to ruin this fragile moment by over-analyzing it. For once, he let himself feel happiness.

"Good morning," John said softly, properly.

Sherlock settled his head back onto his pillow, his palm coming to rest in the center of John's chest. "It is."


End file.
